God's Formula: A Novel of Ian Fleming and JRR Tolkien in WWII France

America

Acknowledgments

Thanks to David Taylor for his inspiration and gift of a photographic mind; to Geri Rosenberger and Steve Loeshelle for their historical expertise and hugs.

– C.D.

Thanks to Karen, who feeds me body and soul and inspires me with her art.

– J.L.

Dedication

To Martha, fair lady of Foix, Mirepoix and fields of sunflowers.

– Carlos

To Jennifer Mitchell, for bringing us together.

– Jim 

We dedicate this book also to all those men and women in the Allies’ clandestine services who, without expectation of either reward or acknowledgement, went in harm’s way in the European Theater in World War II. They are not forgotten.

I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast, for I intend to go in harm’s way.

– John Paul Jones

PROLOGUE

The White House, March 20, 1939, 6:00 p.m.

My hair is as white as the falling snow, Albert Einstein said to himself, focusing for a moment on his reflection in the limousine’s darkened rear window. Fixing his gaze on the scene outside, he smiled wryly as his face and unruly head of hair dissolved to reveal large wet flakes melting as they hit the tarmac surrounding the building’s stately portico. On the lawn and in the border shrubbery, it was sticking. A storm brewing in the North Atlantic, the radio announcer had said earlier. No doubt, he thought, his mind turning to Germany’s Stormtroopers—the dreaded Sturmtroppen—bigger, taller, stronger, and more numerous now than they were in what he and others were already beginning to call the first war. And to his beloved Prague, which, defenseless, had yesterday succumbed without a fight—no need for any kind of troppen—to the madman Hitler. This event—and a coded message from a colleague in Berlin—were what had prompted him to ask for and rapidly obtain an audience with President Roosevelt. Fame, so difficult in so many ways, had at least one or two advantages.

Not that the meeting had gone well. It hadn’t. Mr. Hull had made the appropriate inquiries. Uranium could not possibly be distilled in three months. Your colleague in Berlin is…, well, mistaken, he had said. Politely. A fool, perhaps insane, is what he really meant. Worse, Roosevelt and Hull had barely heard of atomic energy, of the potential, now very real, for atomic bombs. They humored him. The war in Europe was not their war. The fourth and fifth persons in the famous elliptical office, a Mr. Donovan and a Mr. Hoover, had remained silent. The president had made his decision prior to the meeting.

It was Donovan who had detained his driver, the elderly Negro with the sad eyes and the salt-and-pepper hair, and Donovan who appeared now at the limo door.

I’ll drive you back to your hotel, Donovan said. Will you sit up front with me?

* * *

Have you been here before, professor?

I visited with your President Harding in 1921, but, as to these monuments, I regret to say, no.

Our two greatest presidents.

Hands in their overcoat pockets, collars turned up, they were standing on the mall facing the Lincoln Memorial. At their backs, across the reflecting pool, was the Washington Monument. Both were dramatically lit from within. It was full dark now and the night had turned very cold. The snow, falling heavily, draped the pool’s grassy apron and the monuments in a crystalline white.

What happened to Mr. Barnes? Professor Einstein asked.

Your driver?

Yes.

I sent him home.

Are we to talk of state secrets?

Yes and no.

You do not trust Mr. Barnes?

What is the German word for penis, professor?

Penis?

Yes.

Der penis.

The same?

Yes.

I don’t trust a man unless I have his der penis in my pocket.

I see. What about me? Do you have…?

No, but I won’t be giving you any information. I would like to ask you a few questions.

Shall we talk here? In the snow?

I won’t be long. We’ll walk back to the car.

Were you concerned about being followed?

They had started to make their way back to the stretch Packard, which Donovan had parked under the footings of the Arlington Bridge. Now, Donovan stopped abruptly and turned to face Einstein.

Mr. Hoover agrees with Mr. Hull, the Nobel laureate physicist said. But you don’t.

Donovan, the most decorated army veteran of the war, smiled, his steely gray eyes twinkling as he took this in. You are very observant, professor, he said.

I sometimes leave my ivory tower.

You might consider a job in intelligence.

Intelligence?

Espionage.

You’re joking of course. My leg is being pulled, as my colleagues in New Jersey sometimes say.

War is coming, Donovan said. That I’m serious about.

As we all should be.

And you really think your friend’s formula would prevent it?

If America were to obtain it, yes, Einstein replied. If Hitler were to have it first, the world, as we know it, will come to an end.

Does he know about the uranium deposits in Czechoslovakia?

Doubtless his lackeys do.

Tell me about Herr Friedeman.

They reached the car. Once inside, the American war hero turned spy started the engine and turned on the heater, a unit more efficient than the heaters in most people’s homes at the time.

As I said, he is brilliant.

How do you know him?

I met him in Berlin in 1915. We worked together for the next seventeen years.

Where?

At the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute.

Together?

I was the head of the Institute. He worked under my supervision.

Did you know about his work with uranium?

Yes, of course.

You were close?

Yes, as I said to Mr. Roosevelt, I mentored Walter. We became good friends. Our families became very close.

And the others at the Institute? Heisenberg, Planck? Did they know of his formula?

It was not a complete formula until recently.

Did they know he was working on it?

No. They were not told. No one knew except Walter and me.

Why?

Hitler was on his way to power. We were opposed to him. The others…

I see. You didn’t have their der penises in your pocket.

You can omit the word ‘der,’ Mr. Donovan. It simply means ‘the.’ But yes, you may draw that inference.

And you haven’t seen the formula? You couldn’t tell us what it is?

I’m afraid not. It was in it’s early stages when I left in 1933.

Why didn’t Friedeman get out?

His wife was chronically ill. She died a few months ago.

You mentioned a son. Any other children?

No, just the boy. His name is Conrad.

How do you communicate?

Via telegram. We have a code, like school boys.

What kind of code?

Part mythology, part mathematical.

What kind of mythology?

Norse. Vedic. It’s nonsense.

You hope.

Yes, we hope.

Be careful, professor.

I am still here.

I’m sorry we couldn’t help. To extract Friedman, a prominent scientist, along with a fourteen-year-old boy, well, the president has his reasons.

The world will be sorry.

Donovan took a leather notepad and pen from his coat pocket, scribbled something on it, tore off the page and handed it to Einstein.

It’s my private line. If anything should happen—if Friedeman should be arrested for example, call me.

PART ONE

Berlin/Paris, August 30—September 1, 1939

1.

Berlin, August 30, 1939, 1:00 a.m.

Fraulein Jaeger, may I help you?

Oh, professor, you startled me.

I am sorry, fraulein. It is past midnight.

The tall and buxom Marlene Jaeger, her lustrous, dark brown hair in a bun, had been bending over picking something off the floor of his office when Walter Friedeman appeared at the door. Her drab gray skirt had been hiked up in the back as she bent forward at the waist, revealing the tops of creamy-white thighs and a glimpse of garter belt. She did not, however, seem flustered as she faced him, but composed and smiling. A wonderful smile, she had, the lips full, the teeth white and perfectly even.

I return sometimes to tidy up, she said. Mr. and Mrs. Z have been busy with their daughter. They only clean once per week now.

Yes, poor thing.

I hope you don’t mind.

Not at all.

Are you here to work, Herr Professor?

No, to retrieve some papers. The bomb alert.

Oh yes. A false alarm, thank goodness.

We were not allowed back in.

Yes, I know. They thought it might have been Polish agents.

Yes, Friedeman said to himself, we’ll soon have to punish the Poles for all the nasty things they’re doing to us poor, wholesome, God-fearing Germans. Invasion and occupation, that will teach them.

I will leave you then, Miss Jaeger said.

Good night, fraulein.

Good night, Herr Professor.

Those papers, fraulien, were they on the floor?

Yes, professor. I was about to put them on your desk. In one hand she held a sheaf of lined note papers filled with pencil markings in Friedeman’s hand. What was she clutching in that other hand? Friedeman asked himself.

No bother, he said. I’ll take them.

She handed him the papers.

Will there be anything else, professor?

Walter Friedeman had been officially a widower for only three months, but de facto for fourteen years. His wife Pauline had suffered from dementia since the birth of their only child, Conrad, in 1925. She had died of pneumonia in June. His mind turned for a moment, a rather long moment, to Fraulein Jaeger’s stockinged thighs. You are a mole, he thought, a spy, and a good one.

No, he said, but thank you. Shall I order you a car?

No, I have my own car.

Good night then.

Good night, professor.

Miss Jaeger’s purse was on Friedeman’s desk. She turned to pick it up, and as she did, she deftly dropped the object in her left hand into it. When she slipped past him he caught a whiff of her perfume, the faint smell of some jungle flower. God in heaven, he said to himself as he watched her walk slowly out of his office and down the long corridor that led to the institute’s reception area.

2.

London, August 30, 1939, 7:00 a.m.

So, William, what brings you here?

War is coming.

Any day now.

Roosevelt needs to know your state of readiness.

It’s nil.

I know. I’ve told him. But that’s not why I called you.

I’m all ears.

Shaded by a large sycamore, Ian Fleming and Bill Donovan sat over tea on the rear terrace of Fleming’s flat in Belgravia.

Our people in Berlin have been contacted by a German scientist, the American said, who wants to defect.

Is he important?

Have you heard of the atomic bomb?

Vaguely.

He’s been working on it.

You have people in Berlin, certainly.

Yes, but that’s just it. Roosevelt says no.

You want us to do it?

Well…

Why not you?

Six months ago…

Yes.

We thought Friedeman was a Jew.

You were approached then? Fleming asked.

Yes, by Albert Einstein.

And you turned him down?

Yes, my government did.

You thought it was a Jew looking after a Jew.

Something like that.

But our man’s not Jewish.

No.

The ironies abound.

The UK has not exactly opened its doors.

I agree. And why not now?

Hitler’s cooking up a reason to invade Poland. We don’t want to give him a reason to declare war on us as well.

I see, but Poland is our ally, so if we get caught, what’s the difference? We’ll be at war with Germany soon anyway. Is that it?

Yes, I’m afraid that’s Roosevelt’s thinking.

Real politique.

Yes. Hard as nails.

Are we in urgent mode?

Yes, I’m afraid so. Our man believes he is being watched, that he will be arrested quite soon, that his formula will be discovered or tortured out of him.

How did you come by all this?

In March I asked one of our people—your old friend Rex Dowling—to make contact. He did. Our scientist contacted Dowling last night. I should say early this morning. He’s in panic mode.

I’ll run it by the old man.

Donovan remained silent. Sunlight, filtering through the old tree’s thick branches, cast dappled shadows on the small table’s snowy-white cloth covering.

They sipped their tea and the silence stretched out.

I’ll be discrete, the Englishman said, finally.

Thank you.

Did I hear it from you?

Yes, but I made no request.

You mentioned it in passing.

Something like that.

What’s the man’s name?

Friedeman. Walter Friedeman.

The two men stared at each other over their teacups, their faces masks of politeness. Then Fleming put his cup down, extracted a Morland’s Special from its packet, tamped it on the table, placed it snugly into its holder, and lit it.

What’s your interest? he asked after taking a long drag and exhaling it with obvious pleasure.

Personally?

Yes.

Einstein.

What about him?

He said Friedeman had found a way to make the bomb in three months.

Three months. Bloody hell. And you believed him?

Yes. He’s Einstein for God’s sake.

I thought he was a pacifist.

That’s just it. That’s what sold me. He sees disaster coming and has been forced to change his principles. To bend them actually. He thinks the a-bomb would be better off in our hands than in Hitler’s.

If we get this bomb…

We’re a long way from that.

Yes, but if we do.

You’ll use it.

We’re a small island. Hitler’s a mad man. I daresay we will.

As I said, Albert is obviously willing to bend.

It’s an old story, Colonel. More tea? A bit of a bracer? The Englishman had his hand on a bottle of St. George’s.

Donovan looked at his watch.

Do us good, said Fleming. What with war coming and not being ready. Turn to the bottle.

Wild Bill Donovan smiled and slid his teacup toward his host. Let me know what Godfrey says, he said. I’ll do what I can to help.

3.

Berlin, August 30, 1939, 7:00 p.m.

Conrad.

Yes, Papa.

We will be celebrating Opa Josef’s birthday early this year.

Early? Why?

I have a conference next week in Munich. You will leave tomorrow. I will join you the next day.

I have Hitler Youth tomorrow.

You will have to miss this week.

Father and son were sitting in worn leather chairs by the fire in their apartment in the Dahlem section of Berlin, near the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute, where Friedeman worked. They sat and read almost every evening after dinner. Conrad frowned. Shall I travel alone? he said.

Karl Brauer will accompany you.

Karl Brauer? The butcher’s boy?

He has cousins outside Strasbourg. His father is thinking of sending him to school there.

School? He seems so dull.

It was Walter Friedeman’s turn to frown. His son was brilliant, his memory photographic. But he was arrogant and condescending to those he deemed beneath him, and worse, much worse, a true believer in Hitler and his insane political and cultural ideology. He said nothing though. The last time he and Conrad had argued, the boy had had an epileptic seizure, his first in many years. That argument had been over Conrad’s insistence on joining Hitler Youth at the ripe age of ten.

I will not let you travel alone, Friedeman said. You will only be with Karl for a short train ride. I have already spoken to Opa. He is quite happy and excited.

Of course, Father. Conrad nodded and turned back to his book.

You can give Opa his gift, Friedeman said.

Of course. What is it?

It’s a poem I wrote for him. I think it will be fun if you memorized it and recited it when I arrived.

Friedeman did not expect his son to be surprised at his choice of gifts for his grandfather’s eightieth birthday, and he was not. Conrad had been memorizing things verbatim, at a glance, since the age of seven, right after his first epileptic seizure. Traumatically induced eidetic memory, his physician had called it.

Shall we do it now? the boy asked.

Friedeman took several sheets of lined paper from his book and looked at them. Then he looked around the room where his small family had spent so much of their lives together. The fireplace, the sideboard where he made drinks for himself and Hilda every evening after Conrad was put to bed when he was a child. The cushioned chair where Hilda knitted. The radio from Rosenhain’s that she talked back to and sometimes sobbed in front of. The bookshelves with their section for Conrad’s science fiction and fantasy novels. The book in his hand was The Hobbit, a gift from Opa Josef, which Conrad loved when he first read it two years ago, and loved more now that it was said to be pro-Aryan and Conrad had become a little Nazi.

Father, Conrad said, interrupting these thoughts.

Yes. Connie. Here. He handed the boy the papers. It’s in Elvish.

Elvish?

"From The Hobbit."

Conrad smiled. What does it say?

A stanza for each of Opa’s decades. His life. It will make him smile.

Conrad stared carefully at each sheet for a moment or two, then handed the papers back to his father.

I don’t remember so much Elvish in the book, Papa.

Oh yes, Friedeman replied. I have been studying. I will translate, but first we’ll see if Opa can decipher it. It will be fun to tease him as he tries.

"The elves in The Hobbit represent our Italian allies, said Conrad, silly looking, speaking gibberish, but useful to the cause. His eyes were bright. Don’t you agree, Father?"

On the wall behind his son was a framed photograph of Conrad and two of his Hitler Youth friends in their absurd uniforms, the single sig rune symbol prominent on their sleeves. Blond like his mother, Conrad looked every bit the Aryan superman the HJ was touted to be producing. The boys in the picture, all smiling confidently, each had his right hand on the haft of the standard issue Hitlerjugend knife in leather sheathes on their belts. Three Jew-haters and future killers for the Reich. Could there actually be five million of these boys—and girls, alas—throughout Germany?

Don’t you, Father? Conrad said.

They’re just elves, Conrad, Friedeman replied, conjured up by Professor Tolkien to bring joy to children, to stir their imaginations.

I disagree, the boy said. But you have not been thinking straight since Mama died.

You mean I had an excuse all these years for